


History Like Bones/Born on the Fourth of July

by tabaqui



Series: South China Sea [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: J-Squared, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 19:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestamp 'History Like Bones' - ten years later.  Both of the boys are having a bad week.</p><p>Supplemental 'Born on the Fourth of July' - war changes everything, including celebrations.  The Fourth of July through the years, post-Vietnam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History Like Bones/Born on the Fourth of July

**Author's Note:**

> This is about coping - and not coping - with the aftermath of war. Potentially triggery for PTSD. I've gone ahead and put two shorter pieces together as one posting. Originally posted in January and July of 2010.

'History Like Bones'

 

 

Acts of injustice done  
Between the setting and the rising sun  
In history lie like bones, each one.  
  
 _The Ascent of F6  
W. H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood_  
  
  
  
  
 _Helotes Park Estates, San Antonio, Texas and Tenkiller Lake, Oklahoma, October, 1993_  
  
  
  
The news on the TV sucks: craziness in Iran and soldiers dying in Somalia and China setting off a nuke. Jensen is getting twitchy; stalking around the house at all hours, restless and snappish and unsettled; jumping every time Jared bangs a pot lid or a door.  
  
It takes about five days of this for Jared to have enough, and then he makes some phone calls – pulls in a couple favors. Gets up Thursday morning at six and makes pancakes for breakfast and harangues Jensen from the back porch until Jensen gives up whatever the hell he's doing in the shed and comes inside, grease on his fingers and his eyes too wide – too wild.  
  
"Eat, dumbass," Jared says, and Jensen stops staring into his coffee cup and picks up his fork. "When you finish that, get packed. We got Cooper's cabin for the next six days."  
  
"Huh?" Jensen stops with his fork halfway in his mouth, syrup stringing down, and Jared makes an 'eww' face.  
  
"I said, get packed, we –"  
  
"Got Cooper's cabin. I _heard_ you, JT. Why in fuck are we going up there?"  
  
"'Cause I'm about to smack you. We need a break."  
  
Jensen's eyes go slitted and a little mean and Jared just holds up his hand, palm out, not looking up from his own pancakes. "Don't fucking even. Pack. Gas. Drive. Or nobody'll ever find the body."  
  
"Fuck you," Jensen mutters, but he goes back to his food, shoveling it down like there's no tomorrow, and Jared does the same.  
  
They've done this so many times, it's practically automatic. Jared packs up the cooler, Jensen packs up everything else. They always gas the Jeep up at the station near the highway, because it has the best road snacks. Once they're settled in and ready to go, Jared takes off his fingerless gloves, tossing them up onto the dash because fuck only knows what he picked up from the floor of the gas station, and he sure as hell isn't contaminating the Jeep with it. Jensen is sulking in the passenger seat, flipping schizophrenically from station to station on the radio until Jared smacks his knuckles.  
  
"Motherfucker, I will _end_ you," Jensen snaps, and Jared just puts the Jeep into gear with a jerk, glaring over at Jensen until he subsides against the door.  
  
"Put your seatbelt on and gimme my slushie."  
  
"Get your own fuckin' slushie, Jesus."  
  
Jared ignores him, merging onto the highway and zooming up to ten over the speed limit, and Jensen mutters and shifts around and shoves the slushie into Jared's cup holder, fishing in the bag for the straw and jamming it through the lid. He crams a handful of bar-be-que chips into his mouth and stares out the window and ten minutes later he's asleep, breathing softly, his hands lax on his thighs. Jared grins, and puts on a mix tape and turns the sound down, and drives. Oklahoma, here they come.  
  
  
  
  
  
Eight hours, give or take, and Jared is easing up the narrow, rutted track that leads to Cooper's cabin. It overlooks Tenkiller Lake, and the westering sun is shining butter yellow through the dark fur of cedars and the leafless, knobbly branches of oak and dogwood. The track ends in a graveled spot under an immense bur oak and Jared shuts the Jeep off with a little sigh. His back is stiff and his ass is numb and his hands are cramped. He shakes them out absently as he looks the cabin over.  
  
It's an old hunter's cabin, pine and river stone, falling down until Cooper rescued it and fixed it up. Made it over, inside and out. Jared knows that the freezer is stocked and the 'fridge, too, 'cause Cooper comes out to boat in the summer, and hunt in the fall, and lets any of the fifteen or twenty-odd other Marines he knows use it whenever they want. Cooper himself is living in a ranch house an hour or so away, stationed at Fort Smith. He's a couple years from retiring, overrun with kids and grandkids and dogs and cats and rabbits and, last time Jared and Jensen stopped by, turtles.  
  
"We made it," Jensen says, stretching and yawning in his seat, eyes heavy-lidded. He cracks his neck and grimaces and Jared reaches for his gloves.  
  
"Course we made it."  
  
"You drive like a suicide," Jensen says, but he's smiling a little, peering out at the house. The sun is striking little gold sparks off his hair – making his hazel eyes seem to glow.  
  
"You _wish_ you drove as good as me." Jared pushes his door open and reaches behind the seat – hauls his folded-up chair out and around and gets it open - swings himself down into it, twisting and hitching until he's settled.  
  
Jensen pulls the keys from the ignition and climbs out, as well. Stretches and yawns again and opens up the back, surveying the gear. He tosses the keys to Jared, easy underhand, and Jared catches them and drops them into his lap. He wheels himself around, heading for the ramp Cooper built. At the top he turns, wheel bumping against the deck rail. From up here he can see the lake, glassy blue-black and rippling with the light breeze, the dock and little boathouse jutting out from the rocky shore. He closes his eyes for a long moment and just breathes. Tang of wood smoke, the spice of fallen leaves, fresh, damp earth and the watery, muddy lake-smell. It's clean and chilly and it seems as if his lungs fill right to the bottom for the first time in days. When he opens his eyes again, he's smiling.  
  
Jensen comes around the end of the Jeep, bags over both shoulders and the cooler in his hands. He moves easily up the ramp while Jared spins around and gets the cabin door open. It's mostly one big room, wood walls and floor, big stone fireplace, decent kitchen. The bathroom's been modified for wheelchairs, and there's two smallish bedrooms downstairs and two up, fronted by a long gallery that looks over the main room. The cabin faces west, sunlight pouring in like syrup through the wall of windows, everything brushed with a honey-gold. Cooper's obviously been there, because a fire's been started, a couple big logs smoldering, damper half-shut, the heavy duty screen securely in place. Jensen makes an appreciative noise and takes the cooler over to the kitchen while Jared goes to poke at the fire.  
  
It takes them fifteen minutes to settle in – ten more to wash up and find bowls and dish themselves stew from the slow-cooker. Cooper's left a goofy-looking drawing of himself on the whiteboard on the 'fridge, over a scrawled ' _Be good!_ ' that makes Jensen snort in derision.  
  
"It's almost like he doesn't know us," Jensen says, and Jared grins and sops up some stew with his butter bread. Chew and swallow and a long drink of beer and, fuck, it feels good to be there. Jared can feel the knots in his back loosening – can feel his shoulders easing down and Jensen's smiling to himself, moving easy. Fingers not drumming the table, knee not bouncing, eyes not darting to every sound.  
  
When they finish, Jensen rinses the bowls and sets them in the sink and wanders over to where Jared is poking at the fire again. Jared can't help himself; he loves the way the embers clink and slide, sounding weirdly like chunks of glass. Plus, the heat feels good, with the temperature dropping steadily as the night deepens around them. Jensen drops down cross-legged, offering a fresh beer and rests his head with a little sigh against Jared's leg, just above where it ends.  
  
"Guess I been kinda pissing you off, huh?"  
  
"You know I'm not mad," Jared says, soft. He pushes his fingers through Jensen's hair, slow and easy, the firelight picking out the greys, making them gleam. "I just wish you'd say something, you know? Tell me when it's getting bad."  
  
"It shouldn't _get_ bad anymore," Jensen mumbles, picking at the label on his beer bottle, and Jared gives his hair a sharp tug. "Ow, fucker." Jensen twists his head around to shoot Jared a glare and Jared glares back.  
  
"Don't be stupid," Jared says, pushing at Jensen's head until he settles again. "You know what the doc said."  
  
"What the fuck's the doc know? Stupid kid's never even been outta Texas."  
  
"Knows you can't just forget about stuff, Jensen. You know you can't, and I know you can't. I know _I_ can't. So just...tell me."  
  
"Yeah, fine." Jensen rubs his cheek along the folded leg of Jared's jeans – sighs a little, and Jared lets his fingers slide down, cupping the side of his head.  
  
They've had this talk – had it a hundred times. Probably gonna have it a hundred more. It doesn't matter, though. Jared watches the flames lick over the wood, little tongues that find every crevice, hissing and whispering. He's had his own share of bad days and weeks – bad months, sometimes, when everything seems to rub him raw. Make him pissed off and twitchy and ready to blow up at every little thing. Sometimes Jared wonders if it was the best choice, two fucked-up ex-Marines in the same house. Egging each other on, maybe. Making it worse.  
  
Jensen twists around again, a soft, warm light in his eyes, his callused hand running up the inseam of Jared's jeans. "Hey, how 'bout we go scrub off the road grime?" he says, wicked little grin on his face, and Jared grins back, leaning down to brush a too-short kiss across Jensen's mouth, a surge of heat and need and utter contentment at the familiar touch. Like he could ever give this up.  
  
"Sounds good to me."  
  
  
  
  
The bed is swathed in flannel and ancient, ratty quilts, faint scent of laundry soap and cedar – soft as a cloud. Jared sprawls out on his belly, warm from the shower, and Jensen kneels over him, knees just touching the insides of Jared's thighs. His hands are moving, warm and rough, over Jared's back, pressing and kneading; rubbing and pushing. Shifting the muscles around, gliding on a dollop of oil that smells like cloves.  
  
"Fuck, yeah, right there, right there...." Jared says, and Jensen leans in a little, digging in, finding every knot and tight-bunched muscle and working them out until Jared is limp as a rag doll and glowing from the friction, cock hard against the worn-soft terry of the towel under him.  
  
"Feel better?" Jensen asks, his hands stroking down Jared's thighs, and Jared shivers as Jensen's fingertips trace over the long-healed scars there – cup the blunted ends of his legs and squeeze lightly.  
  
"Feel even better with you in me," Jared says, and Jensen huffs out a little laugh, low and soft.  
  
"Greedy." But Jensen's mouth is where his hands were, lips and tongue on Jared's shoulder blades, on his spine. Nipping at the curve of Jared's ass and laughing again when Jared makes a little noise of impatience and spreads his thighs wider. "So greedy...."  
  
"And you're a fuckin' cock tease," Jared mutters, but Jensen is already spreading him open, thumbs rubbing over his balls and around the root of his cock, squeezing. Fingers sinking into the dense muscle of Jared's ass and his tongue licking, hot and wet, circling and pushing and opening, tip of it fluttering just inside. It makes Jared get up on his elbows, legs pushing for purchase, trying to get closer, to get _more_ , because that slick, wet tickle of tongue and lips is good, so fucking good, but just not _enough_. " _Jensen_ , fuck, c'mon –"  
  
"Want me so bad, don't you?" Jensen says, and he's pulling at Jared's hip – rolling him onto his back and Jared goes, squirms straight on the towel while Jensen wipes his mouth in the crook of his elbow and slicks himself with a pump of oil and slides his hands under Jared's ass.  
  
"Put me in you, use your hand," Jensen says and Jared reaches between them, finding the wet tip of Jensen's cock and guiding him. Groaning as Jensen slips and slides and then settles, pushing lightly. Jensen pulls Jared up a little higher, his biceps against the backs of Jared's thighs, knees braced wide. Then he's leaning in, sinking in, one slow inch at a time and Jared fists the quilts and lifts his hips up, lip caught between his teeth and his gaze fixed on Jensen. Never once looking away while Jensen rocks in, deeper and deeper.  
  
"God, oh...." Jensen goes still for a long moment, and then he twists a little, grinding against Jared and Jared is panting, one hand on Jensen's ass now, the other on his own cock, stroking. "Ooh, JT...."  
  
"Yeah, c'mon, c'mon." Jared's voice is husky – breathless – and Jensen starts to move. Slow thrusts, the weight of his body behind them, solid push that makes Jared gasp every time and they're both sweating now, sheened with it, taste of it on Jared's tongue when he licks his lips. Jensen groans and folds down over him, mouth sealing over Jared's, his tongue pushing inside, sliding over Jared's teeth – rubbing at the roof of his mouth.  
  
Jared's knuckles are tight against Jensen's belly, curled around his own cock. Jared can feel the ripple of Jensen's muscles there, the flex and push, the way Jensen's diaphragm expands and contracts. He's got his other hand on Jensen's ribs, arm wrapped around him, Jared's whole body clenching tight and then letting go, rhythmic and desperate. As desperate as the little noises that keep slipping out of his mouth, little groaning sighs, and Jensen pulls away – pushes his forehead against Jared's. Moving faster now – rougher – hand curved around the top of Jared's shoulder, his forearm under his shoulder blade, holding on.  
  
Jared arches, crushing Jensen down tighter – squeezing with this thighs and his arm and his ass, teeth gritted, and Jensen's breath catches and he's rutting in hard, as if he wants to split Jared open and crawl inside.  
  
"God, JT...." Jensen says, voice as wrecked and strung out as Jared feels and Jared pushes up and _up_ , feeling the moment Jensen comes, feeling the shudder that goes through him – feeling every one of Jensen's muscles lock tight, hips jerking in a frenzy of ragged thrusts. Jensen gasps against Jared's throat, shocky and hot-cold, lips just touching skin.  
  
A minute later, Jensen pushes himself up on one elbow. Jared can move his hand again, and breathes out hard when Jensen folds his fingers over Jared's, hips still moving, softening cock pushing and rubbing at just the right angle, sparking-hot little pulses of sensation snapping through Jared like a shock. It doesn't take much for Jared's own orgasm to lift him like a wave and Jensen draws it out, squeezing and stroking until Jared shudders all over, half-laughing, half-gasping, clenching his fingers tight over Jensen's.  
  
"Fuck, gotta...s-stop –"  
  
"Like it when you shiver," Jensen says, laughter in his voice, and gives Jared one last caress.  
  
Jared _shivers_ , hissing between his teeth. "Bastard."  
  
"You know you love it." Jensen lets himself down until he's all but crushing Jared into the bed, running little nibbling kisses up his shoulder and throat to his jaw. Nuzzling close, just breathing. "Love you," he says, low, and Jared grins up at the ceiling and runs his hand up Jensen's sweat-slick back to tangle in his hair.  
  
"Love you, too."  
  
  
  
  
  
Friday, Saturday, Sunday; they pass slow and easy and essentially the same. Breakfast whenever they manage to crawl out of bed, then down to the dock and the canoe, to paddle all over the mostly-deserted lake, watching the herons and the ducks, fishing for bass and crappie. Once seeing a bald eagle diving down like a thunderbolt from God, skimming across the slate-blue water and arrowing up and away, a flopping fish caught in its talons.  
  
It's sunny and quiet and just _them_ , and Jared watches Jensen's twitches and ticks and jumpiness smooth out and go away, tension unraveling like an old sweater, leaving softness behind. Monday is more of the same, and that night they eat a fresh-caught dinner and the last of the box-mix brownies Jared made that morning. They shower and get comfortable, worn flannel pajama bottoms and Jensen's favorite Henley shirt, bleach-stained and raveling. Jared in a tee and a huge old wash-worn denim shirt that feels like raw silk under his hands. Jared goes into the living room to peruse the stack of DVD's that have accumulated over time, and Jensen is prying the caps off two beers when a low rumbling intrudes on the quiet.  
  
Jared turns around as it gets louder, glancing over at Jensen, who puts the beers down and turns off the kitchen light. Now there's just the little lamp on the bookshelf and the fire lighting the cabin, and Jensen moves like a cat through the shadows, lifting Cooper's rifle down from the hooks on the wall and creeping up to the door.  
  
The rumble becomes a roar, familiar. Motorcycle engines, and Jensen snarls silently, unconscious and terrifying, if you're not Jared. Jared stays where he is, knowing that Jensen's nerves will only twist up tighter if he puts himself anywhere near the door, the windows – danger.  
  
It's probably nothing. It's probably just some kids out running around – looking for a place to party. The locals know to leave the cabin be, but there's always a few too stubborn or too stupid to know what's good for them. Or it's some tourists, missing the campgrounds at Cherokee Landing or their rental duplex over at Wildcat point, lost in the dusk and hoping like hell to find something at the end of the cabin's track. Probably five minutes of earnest conversation will see them alone again, but old habits die hard and Jensen lived rough for a lot of the years he wasn't with Jared. His hackles go up at the drop of a hat and the cabin is home turf – his territory. He most likely couldn't react any other way if he tried.  
  
Jensen looks over at Jared and Jared nods, and Jensen slips out the cabin door. There's a light at the end of the ramp, motion-sensor, that'll come on in a minute. Probably blind the riders; definitely show exactly who they are, and Jared sits tensely, his hands on the rims of his wheels, clutching a little too tight. Waiting.  
  
The engine sounds crescendo and then switch off abruptly, and Jared can faintly hear voices – conversation. Feet pound up the ramp and he's sitting there, wondering what the fuck is going on, when the door crashes open and a hand hits the overhead light switch and two men are standing there, motorcycle leathers and road-dust and denim.  
  
"Well, ain't you a sight for sore fucking eyes."  
  
Jared just gapes for a moment, completely and utterly at a loss. "Jesus... _Kane_? Is that – Christ, Christian Kane, that you?"  
  
"In the flesh," Christian says, running a hand back through a thick mane of greasy hair, and Jared laughs out loud, tension rushing out of him in too-big guffaws that feel good, nevertheless.  
  
"Oh, man, I can't _believe_ it – does Cooper know every fucking body, or what?" Jared wheels over, grinning, and Christian goes down on one knee, grabbing Jared around the shoulders and half way pulling him out of his chair, hugging so fiercely it's a little scary. He smells of sweat and leather and gasoline, smoke and dust.  
  
"Fuck, man, Jesus...." Christian's voice is a little thick – a little rough – and Jared wraps his arms around the other man and lets him just squeeze for a minute. "Cooper told me you made it, he said...but.... Last time I saw you...you were... lookin' like somethin' the cat dragged in." Christian's arms loosen and slide away and he sits back on his heel, quick swipe of his wrist across his eyes.  
  
"I only made it 'cause you flew like the fucking hounds of hell were on our tail, man." Jared squeezes Christian's shoulder through the scarred leather of his jacket, studying the man he's dreamed about a thousand times – the pilot that helped save his life. There's grey in the dark hair that hangs past Christian's shoulders – crow's feet in the tanned skin around his eyes, and silver in the stubble on his chin. But the eyes are the same intense blue, the mouth quirked up in that same smile, and Jared can't help grinning back. "Man, they talked about you, after you brought me in. Told me you were one crazy-ass mother fucker, flyin' in like you did."  
  
"Hey, man, I was just doin' my job."  
  
"Like hell," Jensen says, whapping Christian on the back of the head and shoving past him with a grin to re-hang the rifle as Christian pushes himself stiffly to his feet. "You were the fuckin' best flyboy out there."  
  
"I'll second that," Jared says. He notices, finally, the other man who's standing there. Tall guy, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, helmet under his arm and a little smile on his lips. Tattooed face, faded little dots in a double triangle under his eye. "Oh, man, I know you, you're...." Jared snaps his fingers and Christian pushes the other guy in the ribs with his elbow.  
  
"I call him tall, dark, and ugly, but you can call him Boreanaz."  
  
"David," the guy says, holding out a gloved hand and Jared takes it, squeezing a little.  
  
"Yeah, you were at that bar in Da Nang, the fucking _Rooster_ , remember that?"  
  
David half-shrugs one shoulder, shooting a little glance over at Christian. He pushes the hair at his temple back a little, showing an old, twisted line of scar tissue, faded but still visible. "Got a steel plate in there. Some stuff is real clear; some stuff is a little fuzzy. I'm...pretty sure I remember you. You came upstairs."  
  
"I...yeah. Yeah, we did." 'Upstairs' and the memory of what they did there – what all of them did – flashes through Jared's mind like a bolt of sheet lightning, hot and bright and over in a second.  
  
"Bet you boys are thirsty," Jensen says, rattling around in the 'fridge, and Jared turns, shaking off the memory. A couple minutes later they're in the living room watching Christian strip out of his jacket while David disappears into the bathroom and Jared knows it's going to be a long night.  
  
  
  
  
  
"And then," Christian says – _wheezes_ , his body doubled up on the floor with the effort of breathing. "And then he says ' _Iffen you don' like that one, Ah kin find you one with_ haaair'!"  
  
"Oh Christ, oh fuck me –" Jensen is curled up on the couch, hiccupping laughter, draped over Jared who's struggling not to spew his mouthful of beer all over.  
  
David is hunched on the rim of the hearth, snorting and grinning and trying to roll a joint without spilling it all over his lap. Red in the face, he kicks out at Christian with a socked foot. "Jesus, you gotta pick the shittiest stories to tell."  
  
"No, no, no," Jensen gasps, waving his beer bottle. "That's a fuckin' _amazing_ story, we gotta hear more stories like that."  
  
"Fuck you," David says. He licks the paper and carefully seals the joint – flicks open a Zippo lighter and lights up, taking a long drag. "Ooh. Yeah. That's the stuff." His voice is tight and high with the effort to talk and not breathe out and he stretches across Christian to give Jensen the joint.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"You don't deserve any," David says. He finally lets go his lungful of smoke with a long hiss, pluming pale smoke into the air. The scent of it is sharp – almost spicy – and Jensen takes a drag and closes his eyes.  
  
"Damn."  
  
"Told you, man," Christian says. He wobbles upright from his sprawl on the floor and snags the empty beer bottles – heads for the kitchen. Jensen passes the joint along and Jared takes a drag, hot smoke rolling over his tongue, burnt-sweet and thick.  
  
"Where'd you get this?" he asks, stretching to hand the joint off to David, who crawls a little closer on his knees, one hand on the arm of the couch for balance.  
  
"Got a friend out in Janesville, in Cali? Grows it in the National Forest out there. 'Shrooms, too."  
  
"Oh man, no. Hate those fucking things," Jensen mumbles into Jared's thigh. He pushes himself a little higher, looking at David. "Fucking 'shrooms, man. Worst trip ever."  
  
"You need to be one with the 'shroom," Christian says around the bag of chips in his teeth. He has four beers in his hands and he holds them out, clinking them together a little.  
  
"Fuck that." Jensen takes two bottles, handing one to Jared and yelping a little when Christian folds down onto the edge of the couch, squishing Jensen's thigh. "Jesus, get off!"  
  
Christian drops the chips to the floor and scrubs his hands back through his hair, grimacing a little. "You just have to...talk to the spirit inside the mushroom. Like...open yourself to it." Christian leans in closer, hand on the back of the couch, and Jared puts his arm across Jensen's chest, tugging him back a little. "You know the biggest single...organism on the planet is a mushroom? Honey mushroom. Up in Oregon –"  
  
"Kane, I do not fucking want to know that there's giant mutant mushrooms in Oregon, okay? Fuck me." Jensen takes a swallow of his beer and then puts his hand flat on Christian's chest. "You reek, man."  
  
"I smell like a _man_ ," Christian says, and Jared hiccups a laugh.  
  
"You smell like five hundred miles of ass," Jared says, and Christian looks affronted.  
  
"Ah, man, you wound me!"  
  
"Like hell." Jensen makes a fanning motion, grimacing as Christian looms in again, the tips of his hair dragging over Jensen's arm. "Go wash away your wildlife, for fuck's sake."  
  
"You're such a pussy." Christian stands up and drains his beer in a series of long swallows – reaches down and hauls David up by his shirt collar. "Come on, baby – if you're good, I'll drop the soap."  
  
" _Baby_. Isn't that sweet?" Jared murmurs, grinning up at the ceiling, and David carefully sticks the still-smoldering joint between Jared's lips.  
  
"Should hear what he calls me when I'm fuckin' him through the mattress."  
  
"Shirley?" Jensen says, and dodges David's head-slap by burrowing into Jared's chest. Christian snorts and leads David away, and Jared takes another drag.  
  
"Fuck, I am so...fucked up," he says, and Jensen lifts the joint out of his fingers.  
  
"You're such a fuckin' lightweight, you mean." Jensen balances the joint on the edge of the end table, the cherry hanging out into space, and puts his beer on the floor – takes Jared's beer and puts it down, too. Squirming around until he's lying between Jared's thighs, chin on Jared's sternum. " _You_ smell good. Like...like...."  
  
"Like a real man?" Jared puts his hands on Jensen's hips and slides them slowly up, rucking Jensen's shirt, his callused fingers rubbing over skin peppered with random scars.  
  
"Like cupcakes," Jensen murmurs, pushing his nose into Jared's chest and Jared snickers.  
  
"It's the brownies, man, I got crumbs all over."  
  
"Mmm, no, it's you. Smell like sugar and spice and eeeverything....nice...." Jensen worms his hands under Jared's tee and button-down and _pushes_ , getting his mouth onto the first bit of skin he can, right under Jared's nipple. Jared arches and scoots down a little lower on the couch – drags blunt, chewed fingernails over Jensen's back and up into his hair and Jensen's breath hitches, shaky little gasp.  
  
"You're more fucked up than me," Jared whispers, and Jensen looks up with wide, dilated eyes, licking his lips.  
  
"Wanna suck you."  
  
"Man, they're right there in the shower –"  
  
"Don't care. You taste as good as you smell, really wanna just...suck you...." Jensen is pushing Jared's shirts higher and Jared gets his hands under the hem of Jensen's Henley and yanks upward, peeling it off in one motion. Jensen goes up on his elbow, right hand working at the drawstring of Jared's pants, tugging it loose and pushing them down, smoothing his hand over Jared's hip bone and the top of his thigh. Dipping his head down to run his mouth from Jared's sternum to his navel.  
  
"Fuck," Jared says, hips lifting just a little, and Jensen grins.  
  
"Yeah, like that...." A moment later the pajamas are mid-thigh and Jensen's mouth is sucking over Jared's hip – the line of his thigh – the soft little curve of his belly just under his navel, totally avoiding Jared's rapidly filling cock. Jared cups the back of Jensen's skull, fingers working and kneading in the hair he's convinced Jensen to let grow a little longer. Just enough so he can get a grip.  
  
Jensen makes a pleased sound at the light, insistent tugs and rubs his cheek gently along the shaft of Jared's cock. "Feels good...."  
  
"You always feel good. Jensen...."  
  
"Gettin' there, JT," Jensen says, and then closes his mouth over the tip of Jared's cock and Jared pulls in a hard, sharp breath, fingers tightening automatically. Jensen's breath puffs warm against his belly as Jensen sucks – licks – pauses to pull back and swallow and run his tongue the length of Jared's cock. And then he does it all over again, and again, and Jared is breathing in ragged pants, one hand twisted in Jensen's hair, the other stroking his cheek, his jaw, his throat. Jensen has his fingers between Jared's thighs, cupping his balls and tugging them gently – reaching behind to rub and push and tease and Jared lets out a low, groaning sigh.  
  
"Fuck, c'mon, do it, want you...."  
  
" _They're right there in the shower_ ," Jensen mocks, pushing a spit-slick finger into Jared, and Jared gives Jensen's hair a sharp little jerk.  
  
"You fucker, just – c'mon – we got, there's stuff in the table –"  
  
"Ooh, _stuff_ ," Jensen says, but he eels his way up Jared's body, his own pajama pants catching and rubbing and rucking down his legs. He pushes Jared's shirts up as he goes and Jared helps him, pulling his arms free and shoving at the neck of the tee. Lifting his head up to kiss and lick the skin that goes by, pectoral and rib and belly. Ducking down just enough to wipe the flat of his tongue across the head of Jensen's cock.  
  
"Yeah, yess...." Jensen stops jerking at the end table drawer and hovers there, one knee sunk into the crack between couch back and cushion, one foot on the floor, elbows braced on the arm of the couch. "Maybe you could –"  
  
"Later, promise, just – fuck, fuck me, c'mon –"  
  
"Yeah, yeah –" Jensen fumbles at the drawer again – jerks it open and feels inside and then he's sliding back down, mouth sealing over Jared's and his wrists on the arm of the couch, twisting the cap off the lube. Jared's hands rub up and down Jensen's back – over his ass, pulling him open and grinding him down, and Jensen makes a breathy, growling kind of noise.  
  
And then his hand is between them, slicking himself, the tube dropping to the floor with a little thump. Jared spreads his thighs wider, gripping Jensen's ribs, and Jensen leans in. Presses the head of his cock against Jared and breathes out, hard, when the tight ring of muscle pushes back and then gives and opens for him.  
  
"Jenn-sen, fuck –"  
  
"Yeah, honey, yeah...." Jensen buries his face in Jared's neck, sliding inside Jared with one hard push and Jared arches under him, hips lifting, hands rough and clumsy on Jensen's ribs – on his ass. Jensen stays still for a long moment, pressed tight, his heart thumping discordant time against Jared's chest. And then he pushes up on his palms, arms nearly straight, and starts moving, slow and sweet. Jared's head is tipped back, a beat-up leather cushion under his neck and he's staring up at Jensen, who's staring back, mouth a little open, panting. Jensen's eyes reflect the firelight, shining green-gold behind half-shut lids. The whole room seems to swim in a honeyed haze, the pot and alcohol in Jared's veins making all the edges soft – the colors a little brighter, the room a little warmer. Jared lets himself make a noise – lets himself groan, breathing rough and fast, doing his best to grind up into Jensen, to drag him deeper.  
  
"I remember you," David says, out of nowhere, and Jared almost bites his tongue off, snapping his jaw shut. Jensen makes a startled animal noise and collapses down onto Jared, wrapping around him and covering him like he's trying to hide him.  
  
"David, fuck's sake –"  
  
"It's the light. The way the shadows are moving," David says. He pushes himself away from the fireplace, only a towel wrapped around his hips. His body is covered in scars, pale and thin or thick and ropey, flushed from the shower's heat. A body that's still broad and muscled – powerful – and Jensen nearly growls.  
  
Jared strokes his hands down Jensen's back, distracting him. "Hey, hey – Jensen, hey, it's cool, c'mon, relax, shh...."  
  
"Startled the fuck out of me, you son of a bitch," Jensen snaps, and David goes down to his knees, so close to the couch he could touch them.  
  
"I remember the room over the Rooster. The light bulb was going, all that fuckin' rain.... Place smelled like dirt and shit and fish and you were...you two were...." David's hand lifts – reaches out – and Jensen flinches hard. David hesitates for a moment and then his fingertip just touches Jensen's shoulder, tracing the line of his trembling bicep – tracing the indentation of an old, old scar.  
  
"You were beautiful. Like now, you were both...fucking beautiful and I wanted...."  
  
"David, hey –" Christian is there, crouching down next to David, towel haphazard around his hips. Reaching out and cupping David's cheek and turning his head – getting him to look. "Hey, man, c'mon –"  
  
"You were there, Christian. You remember? The light was so...perfect, and the rain...it was...hissing, it was covering up...all the noise –" David takes a shuddering breath, his eyes closing for a moment, and Jared is afraid to move – afraid to do anything but watch, his heart pounding in his chest.  
  
"Yeah, I remember. I remember you were pretty fucking stoned, man, we were both stoned."  
  
"Christian –" David says, and his voice is ragged and thick and it _hurts_ , and Jared swallows and looks up at Jensen. Gets back the tiniest of nods, hazel eyes wide and troubled.  
  
"Hey, man. Kane. It's cool." Jensen lifts himself up a little, on his elbows. Puts his hand on Christian's shoulder and squeezes gently. "We're cool, okay? I mean...not like we haven't done this before, huh?"  
  
"Man – Jensen –"  
  
"It's okay. Fuck, we're kinda...in the middle here," Jared laughs shakily, breath catching when Jensen's hips shift and his cock does, too, inside. "Jesus, I – I don't care."  
  
"Okay. Okay," Christian says, and then David leans over and catches Jensen's chin – turns his head and presses his mouth to Jensen's in a brief, hard kiss.  
  
"Okay," David breathes. And then he's sinking back, pulling Christian with him. Both of them on their knees and David threading his fingers through Christian's hair and pulling him in for a kiss that is...so much more.  
  
"Fuck. JT, you sure? You don't have to –" Jensen whispers, and Jared runs his fingers back through his hair, scrubbing. Wraps his arms around Jensen and pulls him closer, hips lifting. Body clenching tight, squeezing Jensen's cock.  
  
"I'm sure. Fuck, you're always telling me I gotta walk on the wild side. You gonna pussy out?"  
  
Jensen stares down at Jared, his expression comically surprised. And then he pulls back a little and thrusts _in_ , twisting, and Jared gives a ragged moan. "Gonna fuck you good," Jensen says, and Jared laughs again, on the last of his air.  
  
"Yeah, fuck yeah, c'mon –"  
  
  
Jensen moves, that old, good rhythm that the world knows, down to its bones, and David and Christian are kissing, towels unfurling and slipping down. David's thighs are around Christian's, his hands on Christian's back, his shoulders, tangling in Christian's shower-wet hair and Christian is making little noises, hitching breath and shaking hands. David pulls him closer, lifts him so Christian is straddling his thighs, one hand guiding himself, one on Christian's hip.  
  
Christian's forearms are on David's shoulders, his fingers in David's hair, their mouths sealed together, eyes shut. When David eases inside and Christian's back arches, his whole body gathering and driving _down_ , Jared feels it in his gut; feels a low, throbbing ache go all through him, his balls drawn tight, his throat dry from dragging air down into his lungs in ragged, shuddery gasps.  
  
Jensen works both hands up under Jared's shoulder blades and pulls him closer – lifts him, hips grinding, trying to get deeper. His mouth skims Jared's collarbone and throat, nipping at the tendon there, at the point of Jared's jaw.  
  
David is making a sound, low and groaning, Christian's name all but growled into the skin of his shoulder, and Christian is panting now, head back, eyes shut. The muscles on his back and ass and thighs flex – moving – rippling under his skin.  
  
And Christian's beautiful, and David is, all tiger-striped in the fire light, sheened with sweat and his hair curling damply around his ears. Jared pushes at Jensen's chest – makes Jensen lean up, his hands on Jensen's ribs, on his back. Rubbing, stroking. Letting one hand fall to his own cock, thumb rubbing through the slick at the tip.  
  
"Wanna see you. Let me see you," he whispers.  
  
"JT, God, oh, oh...." Shuddering, Jensen's hips jerk forward in quick, hard jabs and Jared squeezes and pushes _up_ and takes him as deep as he can. Christian is moaning, long and low, and David makes a harsh, gasping sound, wrapping his arms around Christian and crushing them together, coming up on his knees with the force of his thrusts. Jensen leans into the back of the couch and puts his hand over Jared's – squeezes and strokes and rubs, and a moment later Jared is coming, breath caught and eyes wide, his free hand clawing at Jensen's back.  
  
For a long time after, there's no sound at all but the pop and hiss of the fire and four pairs of lungs working to pull in air. Four bodies shifting and sliding and settling, sweat-slick and loose. Until David makes a noise that's more pain than pleasure and Christian pushes himself up and off and to his feet, grimacing.  
  
"Fuck, fuckin' back."  
  
"Fuck your back, my knee's locked," David mutters, listing sideways on one hip and rubbing at his kneecap.  
  
"Walk it off, Marine," Jensen says into Jared's hair, and Jared giggles. Stops himself with a snap and cranes his head around.  
  
"I need another hit, and I need another shower, and then I need to go to fuckin' bed."  
  
"Aa-men," Christian says. He gropes around on the floor and finds a lighter – picks up the joint off the end table and relights it – takes a long drag. Holds it out to David, who doesn't even take it, just puts his lips to the crushed end and draws in.  
  
"Breakfast's on me," Christian says, his voice a little squeaky, and hands the joint to Jensen. He bends down and snags the towels, then gets his shoulder under David's arm and hauls him upright. They both limp into the bathroom and Jensen eases out and over against the back of the couch, half on Jared, stretching hard.  
  
"Comin' up here was a good idea," he says, and Jared grins at him.  
  
"You're such a fuckin' dirty old man."  
  
" _Your_ dirty old man."  
  
"Wouldn't have it any other way. Baby."  
  
  
  
  
Three months later, Christian calls from Montana. He sounds tired – raw – and Jared almost doesn't hand the phone over to Jensen. But he does. Seems David went off his meds, and off the reservation. Broke up a bar and wrecked his bike and punched a cop. He's on 72 hour lock down and then court and maybe he'll go to jail, maybe he'll go to a ward in a VA funny farm.  
  
Christian's pretty sure it'll be a hospital, and more meds, and freedom, eventually. Physically. Nothing will free David from his memories – from the haunts that stalk his dreams. Christian wants to know, when everything's been settled, if Jensen can fly up and drive back to Philadelphia with him, in the big truck with Christian's bike and the wreckage of David's. That's where the hospital is – where David's doctor is – and they have a house there, shrouded in dust sheets and memories.  
  
Jensen says yes, of course. Of course, and when the time comes, Jared lets him go with a kiss and a smile. They all have their bones, after all, lying like stumbling blocks and pit-falls in their histories.  
  
Bones that whisper endlessly, a litany of sorrow and loss and of the last, golden days of an innocence forever lost. It's the least they can do.

 

 

'Born on the Fourth of July'

 

Title from the song 'The Yankee Doodle Boy' by George M. Cohan  
  
  


 

Jared's first Fourth of July back home, he was in Recovery, buried in the cotton wool of anesthesia, the boom and crump of the big mortars a distant, thundering thing. He stirred, troubled, and a cool hand touched his brow.  
  
"Ss...sit...rainin'?" he asked, toes _can feel them, can feel them, just a dream, not gone, not...._ curling under the sheet.  
  
"No, it's not," someone said, confusing him, and then the steady pop and boom rushed into static and rolled over him like a wave, and he let go, drifting down into nothingness.  
  
His second, he lasted about five minutes on the back patio, flinching every time one of the kids tossed a firecracker down at the bottom of the yard, or sent a bottle rocket trailing dizzily into the sky. Cordite smoke thick in his nose, choking him. He jerked his wheelchair around, clumsy and shaking, and wheeled himself inside, bumping over the aluminum strip of the sliding door. Over the lumpy den carpet and down the too-narrow hall, wedging himself into the bathroom and locking the door.  
  
He ran the water hard, his shaking hands under the cold stream of it until they hurt, head on the chill lip of the sink, trying to breathe. Mama only knocked twice.  
  
  
  
His third, fourth, and fifth, he was well-mortared with beer beforehand, bricked up and chinked tight. It didn't make it any better, but he could hold that sick, too-wide smile a lot better, and nobody thought twice if he had to go throw up.  
  
  
Seven, eight...he managed to duck out. Said he was doing something with his buddies – earned a little hug from Mama and a smile from his Daddy. He had supper first, out on the patio – hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill, Daddy presiding like the Galloping Gourmet or somebody. Mama loading him up with potato salad and three-bean salad and ambrosia salad and Jell-O mold until he thought he might be sick right there. Belly already twisted up in anticipation and dread, hands sweating on the rims of his wheels.  
  
Finally, before dusk, he said good night and slipped away – drove over to his new-to-him, barely-fixed-up house and crawled into bed. Pulled the covers up tight, turned the stereo on good and loud and shot up, losing himself in the Charlie Daniel's Band and Lynyrd Skynyrd – Heart and the Eagles and ELO. Mama never said a word after the first time, but maybe she knew.  
  
Nine he was back in the hospital, shaking and sweating and screaming – fighting off the creeping horrors and the shadows with gleaming teeth and curling claws and his own blood, which had turned toxic on him, he was sure. He had to let it out before it killed him, and he did it a few times before they tied his hands down and shot him up – like he couldn't do that himself! He lay smothering under the soft, heavy paw of the drug, fireworks like a faltering heartbeat somewhere in the back of his mind.  
  
  
Fourth of July number ten...he talked to the doc beforehand, and he talked to Mama and Daddy a little, and they stayed inside and played pinochle and crazy eights, and drank grape Crush and root beer until midnight.  
  
Once Mama and Daddy went to bed – Sissy was on an overnight – Jeff hooked up his VCR and made popcorn and Jared dug out the beer. They watched the worst porn ever made, laughing hysterically and trying to shush each other until almost five a.m. It was the best Fourth Jared could remember in a long, long time.  
  
Things got easier after that. Jared got his degree and got his job – taught his classes and saw the doc sometimes, and sometimes.... Sometimes lay on his couch, staring at Johnny Carson and having a beer go warm in his hand, wondering.  
  
  
  
The first year Jensen came back, he was gone again before the Fourth came around, and it was three years before Jared got to spend one with him. They'd both been having a bad time of it – both been snapping and snarling at each other and the world, forgetting what was going on until the kids down the street started a bottle-rocket fight, and then the ones up the street started doing cherry bombs and whistling rockets and Jensen snapped.  
  
He trashed the kitchen and gave Jared a black eye – got himself wedged up in the bedroom closet with a .45 and a K-bar and wouldn't come out, wouldn't stop screaming. The cops came before Cooper did, and it was a big fucking mess for a while, Jared thinking somebody was gonna get shot and it sure as fuck wasn't gonna be Jensen.  
  
Jensen went back in the hospital for a while after that, and the next year they spent the Fourth out at Cooper's cabin, and it was better.  
  
  
  
Sometimes, Jared watched the old men at the hardware store or at the Piggly Wiggly. The ones who sported the little paper poppies in their lapels – the ones with a cane and a limp and a VFW pin on their hat. Wondering what the Fourth meant to them – did to them. Wondering if they'd ever spent that day – that night – shaking with fear and rage and remembrance. Shaking with horror and loss, curled up in the dark and crying. Wondering what the fuck they'd done to deserve the pictures that spooled out, all Technicolor vivid, on the insides of their skulls.  
  
Wondering if it was different for them. If they didn't mind so much, because they'd won their wars – been real heroes. Come home to fife and drum, flags and pretty girls, kisses ready.  
  
And then Jensen would touch his cheek – call him back. Say something stupid or pretty or loving and make Jared forget all about it. For another year.


End file.
